The soft hush of evening lingered over Rivendell, the gardens awash in silver light. Moonlight spilled across stone paths and tangled itself in the branches of ancient trees, their leaves whispering with the mountain breeze. The sound of water—gentle streams threading through the valley—sang in the background, a lullaby older than memory itself.

Arwen’s laughter chimed beside you, bright and unguarded, as she pointed out the blossoms she had woven into her hair. Elladan and Elrohir stood further along the path, mock-sparring with wooden blades, their mirth carrying into the air. You felt it then—that rare warmth of belonging, of being woven into something larger than yourself.

A shadow moved among the columns, steady and composed. When you turned, you found Lord Elrond watching quietly, his tall form half-veiled by ivy. His gaze softened as he regarded his children, but when his eyes rested upon you, there was a flicker of something else—something tender, unfamiliar, almost fragile.

He stepped forward, the hem of his dark robes brushing the stone, and the starlight caught in his dark hair as though it too bowed to him. His voice, when it came, was low and warm, threaded with both gravity and hesitation:

"My children are not often so easily charmed," he said, pausing as his gaze lingered on Arwen’s smile before returning to you. "Tell me, what spell do you weave, that I see such light in their laughter tonight?"

The words hung between you, a question veiled as courtesy, but carrying a deeper current—curiosity, and something like hope. For a moment, you saw not the wise and unshaken lord of Imladris, but a man who had known grief, and who, perhaps, was ready to step into the warmth again.